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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24169726">Never once</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellcsweetie/pseuds/hellcsweetie'>hellcsweetie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Suits (US TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>8x13, Angst, Character Study, F/M, Pre-Canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 21:54:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,223</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24169726</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellcsweetie/pseuds/hellcsweetie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-8x13. Harvey reflects on what he has and what he lacks.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Donna Paulsen/Harvey Specter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Never once</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I wrote this after I first watched 8x13. I'm rewatching the show now and this scene broke my heart allll over again and I thought I'd post it. Enjoy  :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Never once, in the span of this,</em>
</p><p></p><div>
  <p>
    <em>have I stopped wanting,</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>even for a breath,</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>to kiss you. </em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Middle of an argument, </em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>all fire and sorrow,</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>truths unearthed like hands</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>of the undead,</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>reaching through soil</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>long since settled,</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>long since buried,</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>and I</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>am staring at your </em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>lips. </em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>— Tyler Knott Gregson</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <hr/>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The third dose of whiskey grows warm in his tumbler. His body is relaxed, lazily resting on the gray armchair that faces his dark bedroom. He usually sits towards the city, but his mind is blank and airy and he thinks the lights from the skyline might make him nostalgic. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He hadn’t meant to drink more than one glass, but after Jessica’s voicemail echoed in his ear - third in a row, must be some kind of record - it just felt like a natural progression. On his day-to-day life it’s easy to glide and be distracted, but being ignored by his three closest friends reminds him why people have families. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He entertains the idea of calling Louis or Robert because maybe this is just how desperate he is, but he remembers Louis must be busy with baby stuff and Robert and him aren’t really friends. He shuffles on the chair and tries to relax and go back to the semi-trance-like state he was in before, but it’s too late now. He grows restless, fingers drumming against the fabric beneath them, like he wants to do something but doesn’t know what that is. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He hadn’t meant to drink more than one glass and he doesn’t mean to go back to thinking about Donna, but apparently that doesn’t stop him. It takes almost no effort at all and soon he’s wondering where she might be, doing what with whom. He remembers Gretchen’s words from the other day - she had a date - and his chest tingles. Maybe she didn’t answer now ‘cause she’s on another date. Is it the same man? Or a different one?</p>
</div><div>
  <p>She’s either going steady or going wild. There is virtually no reason for him to linger on the topic but he does it anyway, and the conclusion is that both options sound equally intrusive and appalling. He downs the rest of his drink, half as a distraction, half because it’s making him kinda sad to watch the liquid go stale in front of him. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The whiskey burns his throat and makes his head swim a little, and a fourth shot feels like rock bottom, which he’s not ready for. He caps the bottle and sets it away in his bar cabinet, then stands there dumbly. Now what?</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He’s still restless as he takes a look around his place. The warm fireplace with its ember glow, the fridge he knows only has food for one, the balcony with one chair too many. The bedroom that’s starting to feel too big and boring. This is the perfect bachelor pad and yet it doesn’t do much for him anymore. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He resents her just a little bit for not picking up the phone. It probably either means that she’s having such a good time she forgot about her phone, which sounds like bad news for some reason, or that she deliberately ignored him, which makes him feel validated then instantly guilty. It’s irrational that he’s feeling this way - he knows he has no right, like being annoyed at your friend for bailing on you because they have to take their grandma to the ER. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She’s his friend and he wants her to be happy. Just... not that happy. Because for a while there it seemed like they shared a connection in being “moderately happy”, and her being that happy means he’s left behind in that lesser-than state. He doesn’t want to be alone in being “moderately happy”, he wants her to be there with him, so they can drink and comiserate together. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jesus. He’s being selfish and childish and ridiculous. This is precisely the flurry of emotions alcohol is supposed to numb, except tonight it’s intensifying it. Maybe it’s good, then, that Donna’s not here, otherwise he might make a fool of himself in front of her. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The last time they had drinks together was the night Louis became managing partner so, what? A couple of months ago? She’d joked around and made him laugh, and he knows that beneath all her eyerolls she likes his stories. They know each other’s orders, not in a boring way but a comfortable one. They go well together, even the waiter thought they were a couple. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>His half-lost mind forces him to remember he’d wanted to kiss her that night. Almost did. They were closer than necessary due to the loud noise of the place. Her glare was glinting at him and she was sporting that devious little Donna smile. He moved an inch forward and maybe it was the flickering candle lights on the table but he thought she’d looked at his lips and if he’d just-</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He sighs heavily. This is an exercise in futility. That wouldn’t have gone anywhere, just like every other such moment between them hasn’t gone anywhere. They work best as friends, and even if they didn’t Harvey’s never had the balls to do anything about it anyway. So entertaining these fantasies, like leaning in that night, would only end up being an anticlimatic let-down. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He rubs his face vigorously, sets his glass on the sink and untucks his shirt, unbuttoning it as he makes his way to his bedroom. It feels disrespectful to her to think these things, like being hot for your cousin or something. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>And yet, as he splashes water onto his face, he sees her. He sees her hair cascading onto her shoulder, he sees her fingers resting on his knee in a way that could be equally construed as friendly or flirty. Maybe it is disrespectful, but she did kiss him not too long ago, so he assumes she doesn’t actually want him to think of her as a cousin. And thank God for that too, because as he dries himself he hears her laughter and thinks back on how sexy she sounded, kind of rough from the drinks and having to shout a little. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He could just pin it on his slightly drunken state and his relentlessness in never being on the losing team - and knowing she’s on a date sure makes him feel like he’s losing - but he’s at home, feeling lonely and sad. There’s no one around to fool anymore, and he sure as hell can’t go on fooling himself. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>It could just be that he’s tired of being alone, but it’s not. It could be that she looked really hot that night, or that he doesn’t like sharing her, but it’s not. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>What it is is that she’s it. He’s not just being petty, although he knows he’s being petty as hell. The fact of the matter is that he wants to come home and find her. He wants her with him at the end of the day to count the losses and celebrate the wins, because he’s not so sure anymore that the wins count as much if you don’t have anyone to share them with. And he wants to share them with her, because she’s usually half the reason he wins in the first place. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>If there’s one thing his empty apartment has shown him tonight is that avoiding something doesn’t make it less true. Like he said himself, Donna’s not just anyone and it’s becoming increasingly clear that he has to face this fact and all that it entails. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He wanted to kiss her that night. And, frankly, tonight. And almost every other night since they met. Hell, he wanted to kiss her right at that bar, wipe that smug grin off her face and show her just who was lucky to be meeting who. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He could just go on pretending it’s not there, how more and more of the things he does revolve around being better for her, having her close. He could continue acting like if he just doesn’t say them out loud the feelings don’t exist. But it’s pointless, because he’ll continue not having her, and that’ll continue to eat at him. Especially now if she’s dating. “I’ll leave it to you whether that’s interesting enough”, he’d said. I’ll leave it to you whether <em>I’m</em> interesting enough. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He knows what it would take - not to have her, but to try. He’s not presumptuous enough to think she’d instantly take him if he were to do something; in fact, he’s not presumptuous at all about this, because every terrified fiber of his being is at least 87% sure he’d screw everything up. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The version of her that lives in his head rolls her eyes and smirks at his inadequacy. He’s never had lady issues. If only she could just be a bit more like everyone else... But she absolutely can’t. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Because back when she yelled at him for making her seem like a liar, when she did all those stupid things to protect him without telling him, every time she’s overstepped a boundary or pushed his buttons in some way, he’s wanted to kiss her. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>And not in a “shut up and kiss me” kind of way, but because those moments she poked a wound or annoyed or even hurt him only show how much he needs her by his side, how essential she is to him. He wanted to kiss her after she left him, as she stood in his office and told him he was too afraid to risk anything. She was right, and he is. Still. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He changes into his pyjamas and huffs at his bed. He wishes he could not think about this now, when she possibly has a boyfriend. Although, come to think of it, that’s probably why he is. He guesses a part of him always thought he’d have time. In a way, it felt like she’d been waiting for him all these years, patiently waiting for him to reach the conclusion everyone else seems to have drawn. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>And he thought he was advancing. Inch by inch, but he was making progress. Asking her out for drinks, being more open and caring, even managing to throw in a joke or two about the other time to keep her on her toes. But obviously that wasn’t good enough. She needed a sprint, not a crawl, and that’s why he’s here now, annoyed at himself and his linen. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She tried telling him all this but he wouldn’t listen. He took her for granted - his lifetime mistake, apparently - and he hid from what it meant that that night at her place, sitting on her couch, drinking her wine, having her bright eyes and the whole illusion of a future together in front of him, he wanted to kiss her so badly it made him breathless and he had to force himself to leave. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He goes back to his kitchen, downs a glass of water and refills it to take with him to bed. He wishes he could talk to her about this, because she’s always been the one to tell him all the hard truths, but she’d probably slap him and hate him forever. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>A part of him truly hopes she gets everything she wants out of life, whatever that may be. But the majority of him wallows in the realization that what they have is more fragile than he’s ever thought. He could really lose her for good at any given moment. An oppressive sadness settles on his back and shoulders and he blinks. He doesn’t think he can live with himself if that happens. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He shakes himself off and ruffles his hair, scrubbing his scalp. The tiredness ticks him off. He could go up to her and try to wrangle one last kiss, see if that soothes him enough. After all, he’s thrown cases and threatened people for her and, for all his general crappiness, they’ve had some pretty good moments. That could be enough to warrant a kiss, right?</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He chuckles sardonically. What a jerk. Good for her that she managed to run for the hills. He hates doing this, feeling sorry for himself. He’s a fixer, not a worrier, and yet the walk towards his bedroom is filled to the brim with worries. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He had a nice status quo and he thought it’d stay the same if he stood still enough. Except standing still didn’t keep it from shifting and taking gravity with it, and now Harvey is off-center and off-balance, trying to regain his bearing in a situation so far out of his comfort zone he doesn’t even recognize it. He knows what he has to do, but for the life of him he can’t figure out if he can actually do it. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He turns off the gas fireplace and the lights and gives his living room one last disappointed sweep of the eye, like it failed to live up to his expectations of what a home should be. Once in bed, after tossing and turning and kicking the sheets off him as if it were all their fault, he finally settles. That’s when he remembers her office, her arms wrapping around his neck, and her lips crashing against his on the last time he really did kiss her. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
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